Detectives Have Souls, Same As Anybody Else
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: It's a routine night and a routine assignment. But when Paul Drake runs into a crooked former private eye who is supposed to be dead, nothing about the night seems routine anymore. Includes characters from The Tell-Tale Tap and The Misguided Missile.


**Perry Mason**

**Detectives Have Souls, Same as Anybody Else**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine (except the much-discussed Portman) and the story is! The idea for this was sparked both because of watching the episode **_**The Tell-Tale Tap**_** the other night and because I started thinking, Since I actually decided to try to redeem Tobin Wade from **_**The Decadent Dean **_**in something I wrote on Livejournal, I should certainly try the same for Glen Holman, whose crimes were not nearly so horrific. (And the reason why I'd try to redeem either one of them is, very simply, I'm nuts about the actor and I love how he portrayed them. And I wanted to see if redemption was believably possible.) Somehow Paul got into the act and that's why this piece will be more widespread than the Tobin Wade one. This is part of my **_**Perry**_** timeline and refers to events in **_**The Spectral Stalker **_**and another, non-**_**Perry **_**story. But I actually don't think there should be too much confusion, since anything important in them is explained in here.**

Being a private detective was never easy. Oh, it was often romanticized in the media, but they rarely really told it like it was.

Just like with the police, there were hours of battling with useless stakeouts, elusive informants, and uncooperative witnesses.

There was paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork.

If a detective was caught where he really wasn't supposed to be, he either ended up shadowed by the police or outright arrested. In particularly serious cases, he would lose his license. Sometimes it was deserved. Sometimes it wasn't.

Of course, then there were the times that being a detective paid off. It was empowering to solve a case, expose the criminals, and set the good guys free. And it was often monetarily profitable, too.

On other days, it was just plain _weird._

It was supposed to be a simple assignment—come to a local bar and ask for information on a particular person who was supposed to frequent said bar. But instead, when Paul Drake arrived and found a random woman sharing drinks and laughing with a man who was dead, everything about the assignment was suddenly not simple at all.

If it wasn't that he had just walked in, he could use the excuse of having had too much to drink. But he was very sober and was definitely staring at exactly what it looked like.

The woman stood, gathering her purse from the edge of the table. "I have to get going," she said. "I work tomorrow." But she tossed the dead man a smile. "Thanks for the listening ear. It's been fun."

He got up as well. "Anytime."

"I never met anyone who could predict what kind of drink I like just by how I look," she added.

He smiled, looking pleased with himself. "Well . . . it's just a skill I've been perfecting over time."

Paul slapped his forehead. If there had been any doubts about what he was seeing, those doubts were now removed. This character had been known for trying exactly that when meeting with people.

As the woman departed, Paul stepped forward. "Well, aren't we having fun," he commented. "Especially for a guy who's been dead for the last couple of years or so. Glen Holman, king of the illegal wiretap. Killed in a car crash after trying to blackmail someone over the contents of said wiretap."

The other man started. A bit of honest concern and general uneasiness flickered in his eyes when he saw Paul. "Oh . . . Drake," he stammered. "Really, this . . . it's not what you think."

"So now you're trying to be an expert on what people are thinking, too?" Paul quipped. He grabbed the other's arm to keep him from taking flight. "Look, Holman. Just tell me how you did it."

"Did _what, _Drake?" Holman snapped.

"How you survived a 200-foot drop in your car," Paul shot back. "A 200-foot drop that killed you instantly."

"What makes you think I was in that car?" Holman retorted.

Paul didn't ease his grip. "The police pulled you out. They said you'd been dead for a week."

"Well." The crooked private investigator smirked darkly at Paul. "Obviously that wasn't me."

"What do you mean?!" Paul's eyes flashed. "If you killed somebody and substituted their body for yours so you could play dead . . ."

"No!" Holman interrupted Paul with such firmness and anger that Paul fell silent. "No, I didn't do that. Whatever else I've done to make a living, I've never resorted to murder. Drake, you have to believe me!"

Paul gave him a hard look. "Then you'd better tell me what's really going on," he said. "Because if you don't, I'm going to see to it that the police pick you up for questioning. In fact, maybe I should do that anyway."

"No, I'll tell you." Sullen, Holman looked towards the door. "But not here."

"Here," Paul insisted, pushing him into the chair and sitting next to him. "You'll have less chance to get away from me."

Holman sighed, his shoulders slumping in resignation when he noticed everyone glancing their way. "Alright," he consented. "Just so you'll leave me alone. . . . You know that Portman woman the Air Police arrested not too long ago?"

Paul nodded. "Yeah. What about her?"

"Well, she was doing other experiments besides those with Captain Caldwell and Ray Norman."

"You," Paul guessed.

"Uh huh." Holman looked down at the table. "I really went over that cliff, Drake. And as far as I know, I really died. But Portman saw in me some new chance for an experiment. She'd already been successful in bringing Caldwell and Norman back from the dead, after they each had suffered different fatal injuries. But me, I was a new challenge altogether after that fall.

"She had her men bring me up from the wreck. And she'd already done some kind of plastic surgery on some other poor sap she'd stolen from a morgue. He'd been killed in a car crash, too. That was very important to her plan."

"So _she_ substituted another body for yours," Paul surmised. "And nobody was the wiser."

Holman nodded. "They found him after a week, as you said. With all the injuries from the crash, not to mention the decay, they never looked closely enough to see the plastic surgery, which was what she'd counted on. And with everyone still thinking I was dead, she could do whatever she wanted with me, just like with the others."

"You're in a better mental shape than the others," Paul said. "Norman's out of his head in some sanitarium and Caldwell's got a chip in his brain that tried to make him do whatever Portman wanted him to do. The Air Force doctors figure they never can get the thing out."

"Well . . ." Holman looked down. "I suppose you could say that I was the luckiest one. Portman had finished figuring out how to put me back together again, so to speak, and she still hadn't decided how she was going to torture me. When the Air Police raided her hideout, I escaped before they could find me."

"Not wanting to get arrested on some old warrant, I take it," Paul grunted.

"Would you?" Holman returned.

"Not especially, if I was in your position," Paul said. "Except for the fact that no one can prove you did anything wrong—even if they know you did. And you know that, all too well. There's no warrant." He narrowed his eyes. "So I don't think you're telling me the truth."

Holman slammed his hand on the table, his cooperative behavior suddenly gone. "Oh, come off it, Drake!" he snapped. "What does it matter anyway, whether Portman tortured me or not? It's over and done with now."

"Maybe," Paul said calmly. "And I guess you're right, it doesn't matter. Except that Portman's a very dangerous lady. Maybe the authorities would like to know what else she's capable of doing. Anyway . . ." He glowered at Holman now. "If you knew about the substitute body and you didn't report that to the police, that's a new charge that can be brought against you."

"I had my reasons," Holman muttered. "I thought it was better if I stayed dead."

"Better for you, of course," Paul said. "And I'm sure it would be. There's a lot of people who'll be angry at you if they find out you're alive."

He glanced at Holman's hand, still on the table. Part of the sleeve had pulled back, revealing what looked like a dark scar on his arm.

Paul snatched the hand before it could be pulled back. "Hey, wait a minute," he frowned. "What's . . ."

Holman jerked, trying to tear free. "Wounds from the crash," he said gruffly. "That's all."

That was certainly logical. But Paul still had the eerie feeling that the explanation was not that simple. "Look, Holman . . ."

Holman got up. "Everyone's looking at us now, thanks to you," he said. "At least they can't hear us, but I hate to think what they're thinking." He gave Paul a smile, but one that was obviously not genuine. "I suppose at least they'll never guess the truth."

Paul let go of Holman's wrist, suddenly a bit embarrassed as he felt many eyes upon them. "I'm still trying to guess the full truth," he said. "And what are you doing these days? You surely can't still be using your real name."

"I'll be officially returning from the dead sooner or later," Holman replied. "Captain Caldwell and Ray Norman have made that little task easier for me. But right now, Drake, I'm going to say Goodbye." He brushed past his fellow private eye, heading for the door.

Left glowering after him, Paul clenched a fist.

Something really weird was going on here. And in case Holman wasn't telling the truth, Paul knew one person who might know the answers _and _be willing to tell them.

xxxx

"Glen Holman?"

Captain McVey of the Air Police rocked back, gripping the edge of his hotel room door as he regarded Paul in surprise.

"That's right, Captain, Glen Holman," Paul said crisply. "He told me he was one of Portman's prisoners and that he got away on the day you raided her place. And since you were in charge of the investigation into what Portman did to Captain Caldwell—not to mention that you're the one who found Ray Norman—I thought if anyone would know about Holman's involvement, you would."

McVey sighed, looking tired. "Mr. Drake, you know a lot of what I look into is confidential."

"Captain, in case you've forgotten, _I_ was one of Portman's prisoners too," Paul declared. "Not for long, but still, I was there. I think I've got a right to know what she's been up to." He peered more closely at the other man. "And since you don't seem surprised about Holman in the least, I'm guessing he really wasn't telling me the truth about something."

McVey seemed to make a split-second decision right then. "Mr. Drake, come inside," he said with some exasperation. "Everyone's going to hear you."

Paul was more than happy to come inside. "That's another thing," he said. "Why you're here in town at the very same time that Holman's come back."

McVey shut the door and led the way to the couch. "You're right that Glen Holman wasn't telling you the truth, Mr. Drake," he conceded at last. "After I found Ray Norman alive and half-insane in the basement, I decided I should go over the entire bunker with a fine-toothed comb.

"I found Glen Holman lying on top of some other bodies in one of the abandoned laboratories."

Paul went stiff. "Bodies?" he echoed.

"They were all dead, except him," McVey said grimly. He sank into the couch, the haunted expression on his face saying more about his feelings than he could ever put into words. "No doubt Portman thought he was dead, too. She told me later that she felt she had broken him and his body had given out. So her men had just dumped him with the other 'completed experiments', as she called them."

Paul was chilled, both by McVey's words and by the bitterness and revulsion in his voice. ". . . So he was thought dead twice," he breathed.

McVey gave a single nod. "But the second time he wasn't ever dead. I found a pulse when I went to him. A very weak one, but it was there. He stirred and started moaning and pleading 'No more, no more.'" He ran a hand over his face. "After everything I saw that day, and everything Portman told me later, I don't know how _I've_ managed to stay sane."

Paul swallowed hard. "Did he know where he was?"

"With the dead men?" McVey nodded. "He knew. When I started to lift him down he started mumbling about being dragged there and left with them as though they were all the garbage to be thrown out. He said that was fine with him, that he'd rather be dead. And then he started realizing that everyone else there was _already_ dead. He had thought they were alive but broken, as he was. And knowing they weren't alive, that . . . that just about drove him out of what was left of his mind."

Paul was aghast. "He and Mr. Norman have sure learned the hard way that blackmail doesn't pay off forever," he said. "They've both paid a price that was much too stiff for their crimes."

"You said it." McVey shook his head. "Well, we've had him under lock and key all this time, trying to get him back to health. And Mr. Norman is making good progress. Even with everything he suffered for two years, he still wasn't as far gone as Glen Holman. The doctors think he'll be able to be released from the sanitarium soon.

"Anyway, this was the first time we felt Mr. Holman was well enough to get out in Los Angeles again. He's been out a few times in other areas. Now he wanted to come back home."

"He sure seemed to be doing well enough at the bar," Paul commented.

"We're hoping he can go back to living a normal life," McVey said. "I came with him to monitor his progress from the background."

"That still doesn't explain why the Air Police were so interested in him in the first place," said Paul. "Why not keep him where Ray Norman was? And why not tell anyone he'd been found alive?"

"We thought it was better if Portman kept thinking he was dead," McVey said. "And we wanted to know what kinds of things he'd heard Captain Caldwell say against his will due to the chip. We were concerned that Caldwell might have revealed military secrets."

"Holman was where Caldwell was?" Paul said in surprise.

"Not very often," McVey told him. "But a couple of times he was lying in a cell in the same room. Caldwell did say a few things, but it was only about technology that's long been completed and isn't a concern."

"I didn't think Portman would care about military secrets," Paul frowned.

"She did in the respect that she felt if she could get Captain Caldwell to reveal some, he would also be easy to manipulate where Major Reynolds was concerned."

Disgust swept over Paul. "She's about the closest thing to a real-life witch I've ever heard of," he said.

"She definitely would have been put to death during the Salem Witch Trials," McVey said. "Unfortunately, her prisoners probably would have been, too. It would have been considered unnatural and witchcraft that they were revived from the dead."

Paul was sickened. "They've suffered enough. Even Holman." He started to get up. "Thanks for telling me, Captain. You know I'll keep it secret."

"It'll probably get out soon enough now," McVey said as he stood too. "But I'd rather not hear that the stories started with you."

"You won't," Paul promised. "Oh, one more thing. Do you think Holman's going to live an honest life now?"

McVey paused. "Actually, I really can't say," he admitted. "Tentatively, I think he's been shaken to the core by everything that his last eavesdropping and blackmail scheme has caused for him. I'd like to say that he'll go straight in the future, whether he tries to go back to being a private investigator or tries something else. But I don't know for sure."

"Well, we'll just have to hope, then," Paul said.

"And I definitely will be," McVey nodded. "All of this could have been avoided if he had just not dabbled in criminal affairs."

"Something so simple as that," Paul sighed. "He wouldn't have gone over the cliff and Portman wouldn't have seen him and decided to experiment on him."

McVey hesitated. "In any case, it's going to be difficult for him to integrate back into society, even if it seems like he's doing well. Mr. Drake, I know he's not a friend of yours, but you _do_ know him and he once was a private detective like yourself." He drew a deep breath. "If you run across him some more, would you be willing to try to help him?"

"_Help_ him?!" Paul cried with incredulity. "What could I do?"

"Just . . . be there for him, maybe try to befriend him." McVey sighed. "I know it's probably a lot to ask, but you're very likely one of the only people he knows who has always been on the straight and narrow. And if he has a good influence, maybe he'll be less likely to revert back again."

Paul sighed. "Well, I guess that makes sense. Sure, I can try to do something for him, but I don't know how much he'll appreciate it or want it."

"Oh, he'll be difficult," McVey smiled. "But deep down, I think over time he'll be grateful."

"Maybe," Paul said. "He definitely didn't want to tell me anything about what really happened to him on the day of the raid. Not that I blame him, after hearing all this. I probably would've lied, too."

"Then you already understand a little bit," McVey said. "That will help." He reached to shake Paul's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Drake."

"Don't thank me until you know if I've had some luck," Paul quipped. "Preferably good."

He was already bowled over by the magnitude of the task. But, for some reason or another, he wanted to try to help.

Maybe because McVey had requested it.

Maybe because he had to feel sorry for Glen Holman, after learning the truth.

Or maybe because he also had to feel a certain kinship with Holman, after having been Portman's prisoner and test subject himself.

He bade goodbye to McVey and headed out the door, wondering if and when he would stumble into Holman again.

xxxx

As it turned out, it happened much sooner than Paul had imagined. When he headed out of the hotel and onto the walkway, he nearly crashed into Holman coming from the opposite direction.

"Watch where you're going!" they both exclaimed at once.

Then they were staring at each other. "What are you doing here?" Holman frowned at last.

"Just leaving," Paul replied, not sure if he should reveal the truth. But then he sighed and crossed his arms. Maybe, if he was to try to make friends with this character, there should not be any secrets.

"Just leaving from where?" Holman regarded Paul knowingly. "Someone we both know, perhaps?"

"You got me," Paul conceded. "Yeah, I was up with Captain McVey."

"And he told you what?" Holman asked flatly.

"The truth," Paul admitted. "The whole truth." He hesitated. "I don't know if you know it, Holman, but Portman had me for a while, too. She tried to get me to turn against a friend of mine."

Holman blinked. "I didn't know," he said. "Does she have something against private investigators, I wonder?"

"No more than blackmailers, I'd wager, since Mr. Norman was one of those, too," Paul replied.

"True," Holman mused.

"Portman just goes wherever she can get her foot in the door," Paul said. "But hopefully now she's been stopped for good."

"If she stays in the mental asylum," Holman said.

He glanced at the hotel. "I was going to see Captain McVey myself," he remarked.

Paul nodded. "I'll see you around then."

"You're a lot more subdued now than you were earlier," Holman observed. "Because of what McVey said?"

"It helps to know the whole truth," Paul said. "You know, Holman, we really don't have to be enemies. At least, not if you're planning to stay away from eavesdropping and blackmail and whatever other illegal activities you can think up."

Holman regarded him in surprise. "Maybe not," he said. "But if I go back to the private eye business, we'll be rivals."

Paul shrugged. "That still doesn't mean we have to buy into Vern St. Cloud's philosophies about the dog-eat-dog world of private eyes."

"Oh? And why not?" Holman was darkly serious now. Paul could hear the bitterness in his voice. "After all, it's true, isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be," Paul said.

Holman scoffed. "Spoken like a true idealist," he declared. "People like you have always had it easy. Of course you'd think St. Cloud's ideas are just the words of a fantastic cynic. But you know, Drake, for all of his faults, and whatever stupid mistakes he's made, St. Cloud's always managed to make enough to get by. And he's always stuck pretty close to the right side of the law, too."

"But you didn't, and look where it got you," Paul finally retorted.

"I _tried_ to play it straight at first, Drake," Holman said bitterly. "I was an honest, upright private eye, the kind in those old black-and-white films on TV. But I _didn't_ make enough to get by. The only way I could get enough business was by taking on jobs where I had to bend the rules. And I kept digging myself deeper and deeper, until I wasn't just bending the rules but outright breaking them.

"Oh, I had it easy for a while. I made some good bundles. And that wasn't enough; I always wanted more. But you're right—look where it got me in the end. Killed in a car crash, brought back to life by an insane witch, and tortured out of whatever sanity I had left. So, after all was said and done . . ." Holman stepped closer to Paul. "I just proved that some people can't make it no matter whether they play it right or wrong. And some other people, St. Cloud included, manage to get by. Still other people, like you, not only manage to get by, but live pretty high on the hog."

Paul frowned. "I'm not that rich, Holman. But you're right, too—some people get dealt a worse hand in life than others. Some of the cards they pick and throw down themselves, but they just get handed the rest without much of any say in the matter. And then they have to figure out how to play them because it's all they've got.

"Or is it?" He grabbed Holman's shoulder. "Maybe you were never cut out to be a private detective. Maybe that's why you couldn't make it as an honest one. Or maybe you set up shop in an area where a lot of the people wanting honest help wouldn't go. There could be a lot of reasons why things didn't work out. It doesn't mean you had to go bad. And it doesn't mean you have to again."

Holman pulled away. "I never said I was going to," he retorted. "I don't know what I'm going to do, Drake. You could be right—maybe I wasn't cut out to be a detective. But there's no guarantee anything else will work for me, either. I might find, just as I did before, that going crooked is the only way to keep my head above water. And even then, eventually I'll go under. It's just a matter of how long it will take to happen. Nothing lasts forever."

Paul heaved a sigh. "It's your life, Holman. It's up to you what you want to do with the second chance you've been given. But I'd hate to hear that you wasted it."

Holman was darkly smirking again. "That's just the point, though. What _would_ cause me to waste it? I haven't the faintest idea. The way I see it, anything I do has the potential to blow up in my face. And if I find something that seems to be working, even for a little while, I'd rather go with that for as long as it pays off."

"Then why not try doing some honest work first and see if _that_ will pay off?" Paul said quietly. "If you figure something will go wrong eventually no matter what you do, what have you got to lose?"

"Everything," Holman said, his tone flat.

"And what have you got to gain?"

"Again, everything. _If_ it works for a time."

Paul nodded. "Life is always a risk, Holman. But it's _not_ always a dog-eat-dog world. There's people who are willing to be there for you and help you so you don't have to face it alone. That's something Perry and Della both taught me. And right now, I'd like to teach it to you."

"Why are you so interested, anyway?" Holman wondered, a bit of suspicion creeping back into his voice. "Is that because of what McVey said, too?"

"Frankly, Holman, I don't know," Paul said. "Maybe it is. But maybe I also just don't want to see you floundering around when you don't have to. And in any case, I don't see a reason why we have to keep going along on the wrong foot. I'm involved now, and I'd like this to turn out decent."

Holman was not convinced. "You don't have to be involved," he pointed out. "You could turn around right now and walk away. The only reason you don't is because of these idealistic ideas of yours. Maybe you pity me now that you know more about what Portman did to me. Maybe you feel that we're . . . blood brothers because you were tortured too, even if for a much shorter amount of time.

"But your adherence to the law is above all of your other feelings. This . . . olive branch you're trying to extend to me is only dependant on me changing my ways." Holman narrowed his eyes. "If you thought I was going to turn crooked again, you would drop me like a hot rock."

Paul paused. He had to admit, he was wondering these things himself. But if he honestly did want to help Holman, and not just because of what Captain McVey had told him, then he had to stay in it for the long haul. He wouldn't be able to quit if he wanted to, or if he got fed up, or for any other reason. He would have to prove that he was willing to be a friend no matter what Holman decided to do. And if Holman did indeed determine to take the crooked path once again, Paul would just have to do all that he could to keep showing him the other, higher road.

Was he willing to do all of that? Holman didn't think he was. _Paul_ wasn't sure he was.

But he found that he wanted to find out.

"It's dependant on whether you want to try calling a truce," he said at last. "That's it. If you don't want anything to do with me, I'll leave you alone. But if you're willing to see if it'll work out, then I am too."

Holman fell silent, studying Paul, searching his face and eyes for any hint of a possible betrayal. Finally he took a step back. "I guess I don't have anything to lose," he consented. "But you know it might not work out."

"Maybe not," Paul agreed. "But it doesn't hurt to try."

"Alright. Then we'll try." Holman held out a hand. "Truce."

Paul shook it.

_I really hope I know what I'm doing,_ he said to himself.

But somehow, as he gripped the hand of his former fellow private eye, he had the feeling that it was going to be alright.


End file.
